Becoming Fear
by strixx
Summary: Each and every one of them were molded by their own personal dread. They embodied their deepest, most primal phobias to create something more, something worth checking your doors a second time for. They truly became fear itself, and they just might have to confront these fears to remind them why they do what they do.
1. Chiroptophobia

He is a plague on both of Gotham's houses.

The good and bad. The honest citizens and the criminals.

Gotham's Police Force is still hunting him down. He's on their side, and he would never want to have it any other way. But the thing is, they're not on _his_ side. They hate him. They want him gone and locked away in a cell. All because of Harvey Dent.

He doesn't mind, though. It was for the best. Dent was the city's first legitimate ray of good in _decades_. Even if he destroyed himself in the end, even if he destroyed the last shred of respectability he had as Gotham's DA, the city still deserves better than that.

The people of Gotham need somebody to believe in. Harvey was more than he needed to be, he was good.

… But then there's the criminals like Two Face, the Joker, Bane, Scarecrow and Catwoman who want him gone, too, because he's constantly playing and exploiting their weaknesses.  
They're ones who feed off of fear, the conniving, manipulating outlaws.

They hate him, though in a sick and twisted way, he's on _their_ side as well.

There's a thin line between the good and the bad, and he's constantly flirting with it.  
Everything he does – hell, the whole purpose of Batman – is breaking the law.

As he stares at the cave walls around him, he realizes it.  
He's a criminal in the best way possible.

But when he really starts to think about Batman and all that he stands for, he doubts himself. Does he really symbolize anything more than fear? The Batman was _born_ upon fear. He festered in it long enough to create something more. He had created something, a symbol, to let his enemies feel the same dread he does every time he sees one of those awful creatures.

… Out of nowhere, a rock falls from the ceiling. It lands into the water with a _splash_.

… Then he hears the screeches. They're ear-piercingly loud.  
Mere seconds later, the batting of wings join alongside their chirrups.

He can barely breathe.

They fly by the thousands, disoriented and lost, trying to find their way out of the cave. They swarm around him, enveloping his body within a huge mass of black, frantic wings. He swats at the things, letting out a blood-curdling scream.  
He loses his balance for a second. He falls backwards, the wings practically pushing him to the ground. He soon finds himself on the cold, wet cave floor.

He scrambles back and looks around, all he can see is black. Sweat starts to bead on his forehead. He feels weak. He has to force himself to breathe, he's becoming light-headed. The bats are starting to become too much.

He backs up just a little bit more, and his hand comes in contact with... a shoe?

He looks up with squinted eyes and sees Alfred. When he looks around again, the bats are almost gone, save for a few stragglers.  
Alfred's very presence provides him comfort. He's no longer struggling to breathe, his head becomes clear and he's slowly regaining his strength. A calmness spreads throughout his body. He breathes a sigh of relief and shoots his stare downward.

"... I remember why I hate coming down here."

Alfred grins, huffing out a laugh, but he doesn't find it funny. Alfred's hands are shoved into his pockets, he shuffles his feet a bit as he stares down to his charge's hunched form on the ground.

He knows that the Batman can be what he is. They both know that it's exactly what Gotham needs – a person who will step up and do what has to be done for the sake of the city as a whole, both the good and the bad. His lips press into a thin line. He becomes serious.

"Do you remember why we fall, Master Wayne?"

He does, and he picks himself up off the ground.


	2. Caulrophobia

He never wanted to be like this. He never wanted to be consumed by fear. _He_ was supposed to be feared, _he_ was supposed to be in charge, not let petty feelings take the reign.

They started to control his entire life, making him do things just because they made him_ feel_ _something_. Feelings made him lose hold on all that he had ever gotten.  
Unwanted feelings and memories plague his every thought, some good, some not too pleasant. When he closes his eyes they're all he can see.

They're all he ever thinks about, he can't focus on anything else.

This isn't at all how he planned it. Things were never supposed to become this bad. How could he ever go on with these cursed flashbacks, these terrorizing thoughts?

Gotham deserves a better class of criminal. Long ago, he thought that he could be that person. Now that he's seeing things clearly for the first time, he realizes that Gotham doesn't ever deserve a criminal who embodies his own fear, one who dwells in his own destruction.

He feels the scars on the inside of his cheeks with a run of the tongue, a permanent reminder of his past. They're a dull red, and as he shifts his eyes over to the side, he sees it.

A smile that reflects his own.

His stomach lurches at the sight.  
It's wearing polka-dotted, bright-colored clothing, with shoes bigger than its head and that familiar paint applied neatly to its face.

It pulls out a bowling pin. Then another. Then another.

It juggles the white pins, throwing them higher and higher with each throw. The higher he throws them, the more his blood starts to boil.  
He hears kids cheering, laughing. They're clapping their tiny hands, and it smiles.

The smile. That dreaded red smile. It's taunting him.

His heart feels like it's going to drop right out of his chest. His head is throbbing and his teeth are grinding together.  
Before he knows it, a knife is being pulled from his coat pocket and he's charging towards it.

There are shrieks of terror.

He looks down, seeing blood as red as its smile.

… Now he hears kids crying.

As he flees from the scene, more memories flash behind his eyes. He screams in rage, clawing at his eyes to try and rid himself of the images.  
Painted lips, white faces and darkened eyes stare at him, a hallow look in their eyes. Unidentifiable plastic devices are being held up, and they all smile. He could practically hear their laughter as he ran.

He's weak. If he can't do so much as control his emotions, then what gives him the right to own Gotham? He's nothing. He doesn't deserve her, he doesn't deserve to be who he is - he doesn't deserve so much as the clothes on his back.

He stops running. Everything is spinning, everything is dark. Memories and regrets fill his thoughts, each thing he lays eyes on contributing to another past sorrow.

A fog is covering his eyes as he trips into a familiar room, fumbling around with dirty and anxious hands. He looks up.

… Then he sees another face. One with disheveled and dirty face paint, black eyes and white paint chipping off to reveal pale skin. It's foreign.

The smile is a deep red, but there's something peculiar about it. It's disgusting, it's ugly, and it makes him want to throw up.  
The skin is raised and stitched up along its cheeks, curling into a macabre grin.

His breath catches in his throat. Its eyes widen and a shaky hand starts to reach out towards the face. The surface is cold, a chill runs down his spine.

Its smile impossibly turns down into a scowl, its eyes challenging.

Then the hand balls up into a fist, nails digging into palms. His blood is rushing, he's getting agitated. His lips curl into a sneer.

He hates what he sees. He _hates _it.

He bashes his fist right into the wretched thing's face, and it shatters into a million pieces right before him. He backs away toward a wall, twitching, nerves jumping.

The sound lingers in his ears and there's a feeling of dull permanence... It's gone.

He exhales, letting all of the air escape his body. When he looks down at his knuckles, they're bloody and covered with bits of jagged glass.

And he laughs.


	3. Corvidophobia

_"Do you know why they're called a murder of crows, Jonathan?"_

Honestly, no he doesn't know. And he has the feeling that he doesn't want to know, either.

As demonic eyes stare at him, he rocks back in the chair. Scarecrow mimics the movement in his own seat. When he slowly swivels his head to the field, he catches a glimpse of Scarecrow doing the same out of the corner of his eye.

He grits his teeth.

The corn field before him spans over the horizon, it never seems to end.  
This infinite field of crop encompasses a dainty, withered house, where the two are sitting out on the porch.

A soft wind tousles the crops, and he can't help but compare it to an ocean.

An ocean that they're stranded in.

… What a thing of beauty.

Then he notices the black birds. They're diving in and out of the waves, cawing to each other. There's so many, too.

"_Let's count them."  
_Scarecrow's voice is abnormally calm, monotone.

One.  
The bird has piercing red eyes; they glow almost as intensely as the sun beating down on his neck. He looks over to Scarecrow, and he has those same fearsome eyes.

Two.  
It has oily black feathers that it ruffles every time it takes flight, but out of the corner of his eye he notices something else that's black. He loathe to admit it, but its feathers could never compare to Scarecrow's brand new suit.

Three.  
This one has bits of straw stuck to it, which it tries in vain to be rid of. Almost cautiously, he glimpses over to his counterpart to find bits of yellow, aging straw poking out from the neck and sleeves.

Four.  
Strangely enough, this one has stitches. He figures that it's probably the handiwork of the other great master of fear himself. He doesn't even need to check, he knows well enough that Scarecrow's mask is stitched up to create its signature look of horror.

He lets out a huff of breath – A scarecrow morphed from crows, who would've guessed.

Now his heart starts pounding.  
As the four birds deviate from the rest of their flock, he notices that they're headed straight towards the house with a vengeance.

Hurried and anxious words fall from his mouth, but he couldn't even make out the sounds himself.

Scarecrow regards him with a passive stare. He leans back in his chair and rests an arm on the banister, a few stray pieces of straw falling from his sleeve. He extends a finger like a perch.

Now the crows are beating their wings faster. Their caws grow nearer and nearer. He doesn't know whether to be confused or scared, or both.

They're a few feet away.

Now the four crows settle onto his counterpart. He can practically feel their sharp talons digging into the body. They stare around for a while before locking their red, piercing eyes on him.

Despite the dizziness in his head, the pounding in his ears and the sinking sensation in his stomach, he speaks up.

"So – Why are they called a murder of crows?"

At that, Scarecrow chuckles. The birds follow suit with their hellish caws.

Then the crows begin to warp as Scarecrow stands up. They curl into black tendrils of smoke. He's frozen to his seat, he's grasping onto the arm rest with white knuckles. Every step his counterpart takes, the more the dark smoke surrounding the body extends out to him.

It's slowly wrapping around, suffocating him.

Coldness sweeps across his body.  
He can feel himself slipping further and further into unconsciousness. Something is forcefully keeping his eyes open, though, keeping them trained on Scarecrow's menacing features. The burlap contorts into a chilling grin.

"_You tell me."_


End file.
